


Return of Gentleman Jack

by lola381pce



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: A Halloween Ghost Story, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Based on a Tumblr Post, First Kiss, Ghosts, Halloween, M/M, Supernatural Elements, highwayman - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-02-07 10:04:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21456250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lola381pce/pseuds/lola381pce
Summary: A Halloween ghost story...Banned from taking vacations with his BFF Natasha - really, the international incidents which occurred at the same time in the same place were purely a coincidence - Clint takes a holiday to England where he follows the path of the highwaymen of old from Exeter to Bath to London.Little did he realise under the full moon of All Hallow's Eve a highwayman of old would follow him in return.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Comments: 23
Kudos: 63





	Return of Gentleman Jack

**Author's Note:**

  * For [varjohaltija](https://archiveofourown.org/users/varjohaltija/gifts), [TheGirlInTheB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGirlInTheB/gifts), [Avidreader6](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avidreader6/gifts), [BeneficialAddiction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeneficialAddiction/gifts), [TakeTheShot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TakeTheShot/gifts), [RainGirl696](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainGirl696/gifts).

> This Halloween ghost story is very loosely based on the following tumblr post by Wirtish: 
> 
> "you ever catch a glimpse of a cloud passing in front of a full moon and you’re suddenly a highwayman in an 18th-century ghost story who just left a tavern on a chilly October night to ride horseback through the woods till you reach the next town over"
> 
> *
> 
> A hug for some friends

Clint stepped out of his hotel into the “grandest street in Bath” closing the front door gently behind him. The black paintwork had such a deep gloss finish he could see his reflection in it and that of the street beyond. Even on vacation, his situational awareness kicked in and he was rewarded with a road clear of any immediate threats. It was a nice feeling to know you weren't always being watched.

With an upward curve of his lips, he pulled up his collar against the chill of the October night and wound his scarf around his neck in readiness for his evening stroll. The post-meal walk - always different times, always different routes - had become a necessity to help him feel a little less guilty about the food on which he’d overindulged.

His meal had been amazing - cooked to perfection as it had been on previous nights thanks to the culinary genius of the chef; it was no wonder he was several times winner of the prestigious Michelin Star. Clint’s pleasantly full belly agreed wholeheartedly.

Still, that's what vacations were about, right? Having fun. Indulging yourself. Putting on a few extra pounds. Besides, when he got back to S.H.I.E.L.D., Natasha would help him work off any additional inches he'd gained around his waist since arriving in England. The vacation had been her idea after all. The least she could do was get him fighting fit again.

For tonight's stroll, instead of heading deeper into the city, he turned towards the River Avon that curled its way through Bath. The road would take him up to Widcombe Hill through Smallcombe Wood eventually looping round to Bathwick Hill and back to Great Pulteney Street where the hotel stood in a beautiful Georgian terrace. A three-mile or so round trip, at least half on a steep incline, it was more hike than a stroll. It should do well for some decent after-dinner exercise.

The circuit would take around an hour to complete, giving him plenty of time to get back, have a quick shower and change into his costume for the hotel’s Halloween party. The kid in him was excited about it. Hell, the adult thought it might be kinda fun too.

Armed with a powerful flashlight for the wooded part of the walk, Clint set off at a brisk pace thinking about what the duty manager had told him. She'd been almost giddy with excitement when she'd revealed that Widcombe was supposedly one of the areas Highwaymen, and the occasional Highwaywoman had been prevalent several hundred years ago. Not that he was expecting anything out of the ordinary, but the way she’d described it, the route was spooky as hell at night and what could be better for a walk under the full moon on Halloween?

His mind drifted while he climbed the first hill. He’d been working several tough missions back to back, S.H.I.E.L.D., or rather his boss, Nick Fury, Director of S.H.I.E.L.D, had forced him to take some time off to recharge his batteries. No longer permitted to holiday together thanks to the number of international incidents it had almost triggered (Glasgow, Florence, Egypt, Budapest… oh, god Budapest!), his partner, Natasha had recently returned from a few weeks R&R and come back with a satisfied smile, a new set of knives, and a suggestion for his vacation. That he follow the main routes of the Highwaymen in England from centuries ago; a route which ran from Exeter to Bath to London. He'd mulled it over for a few minutes then figured, why the hell not. He'd only sit at home bored out of his skull otherwise. Or getting up to things he probably shouldn't and everyone knew where that led.

So, he'd taken a flight to the UK, driven to Exeter where he spent a few days drinking in the atmosphere then travelled to Bath, a city with which he'd totally fallen in love causing him to extend his stay before he was due to take the road back to London across Hounslow Heath. And he'd enjoyed it. The scenery was gorgeous, the people friendly, and the history, dark. And so far not a hint of an international incident. Maybe Fury had a point about him and Tasha holidaying together. He smiled at that.

His calves aching a little from the steep hill climb, Clint reached the entrance to the wood. He hadn’t needed the flashlight yet as the moon was still bright and full, throwing shadows that danced and flickered amongst the skeleton outline of trees and hedgerows before him. If he hadn't seen all the strange shit in his life up to this point, he probably would have been weirded out especially with the ancient cemetery nearby. However, Clint was made of pretty stern stuff and instead of being afraid, he welcomed the quiet solitude. By design or fate, no-one was out and about tonight.

The wind had picked up causing some of the branches overhead to creak and groan as they swayed in the breeze. Far away an owl hooted, its call answered by a screech and mournful wail from another directly above him. A few yards farther along the path, the snap of a dry twig to his left caused him to pause, but loud snuffling and the rustling of leaves accompanied by the glimpse of a large silvery-grey body with a black and white striped head made him grin. He recognised the animal as a badger, a species of wildlife native to the UK.

The badger peered at him grunting its displeasure at his presence before ambling off to continue its nocturnal foraging elsewhere. He didn't know a great deal about them but he knew enough about wild animals in general that if you didn't bother them they'd usually leave you well enough alone. Usually.

Through the trees, a cloud passed in front of the full moon and the hair on the back of Clint’s neck and forearms slowly rose. A shiver rolled down his spine an involuntary spasm that had nothing to do with the chill, at least not from the weather. The distant thunder of hooves and the rumble of wheels became steadily louder, sounds he swore he hadn’t heard before the moon disappeared.

As the sky cleared, the movement of a shadow not far from where he stood caught his eye making its way leisurely from the trees onto the path. The crack of a gunshot echoed in the night and instinctively he reached for his sidearm which, of course, wasn’t there. Cursing quietly, Clint darted behind the broad trunk of an old oak to wait until whatever was going on revealed itself.

With loud whinnying and shouts of “Whoa! Whoa there!” the coach, as it turned out to be, and its team of horses came to a halt in front of a solitary steed and its rider, now obvious in the moonlight, who stood unmoving to block the path.

Clint's first thought was 'How the hell had Natasha managed this?' His second simply, 'What the hell?'

“Stand and deliver!” a gravelly, confident voice called from atop his mount a single-shot flintlock pistol held in each of the rider’s raised hands. “Stand and deliver and on the word of Gentleman Jack, you shall soon be back about your business.”

“Gentleman Jack is it?” came the answer from the driver of the carriage. He didn’t sound afraid, merely curious.

“Aye.”

A flintlock pistol similar to the highwayman’s, slowly protruded from the coach window, albeit this one shaking like a leaf.

Gentleman Jack’s sharp eyes missed nothing however and a bark of laughter escaped from behind the crimson silk bandana that covered the lower half of his face. “Sir, the trembling in that delicate hand of yours requires to be stilled else you are more likely to shoot the driver than me. Perhaps you best withdraw your pistol.”

“Be my luck,” the driver muttered, darkly. Fortunately for him, the pistol's wielder heeded the warning and the quivering flintlock pulled back before a shot, accidental or otherwise, was fired.

Jack encouraged his horse forward a few paces with a gentle squeeze of his legs.

“Come now. I have places to be this All Hallow's Eve as I’m sure you must also. Test my patience no further. Driver, down from your perch if you please. That musket beside you on the bench? Hold it high where I may keep my eye upon it.”

“Doesn’t please me at all, sir. Though it seems you give me no choice,” the driver grumbled climbing down from his seat, his firearm held above his head.

“There is always a choice, friend. Be sure you make the right one,” Jack told him with a hard edge creeping into his voice.

The driver swallowed with a loud gulp. For all his good humour and polite ways, it was still a highwayman who had held up his coach. And a well-armed one at that.

“Now throw your musket to the hedgerow. Careful mind. I will have no injuries save those I cause myself should I have need. Sit with your back against the wheel nearest me, hands beneath your rear. Good man,” Jack praised as the driver did as he was instructed without any further ado.

“Travellers, leave the comfort of your coach one at a time. Use the door facing me and drop the valuables you carry into this bag,” he instructed, throwing a small cloth sack to the ground. “And make no mistake, the first weapon I see aimed at me or my horse shall have you meet your maker sooner than either of us would care for.”

After a moment, the door swung open and a tall bald man with no small amount of facial hair, at odds with the current trend, climbed down from the coach.

“Damned ridiculous, sir!” he protested vehemently, exuding arrogance. “I will see you hanged for this.”

“Perhaps, your Lordship,” Jack conceded remaining unperturbed even though he immediately recognised the wealthy industrialist, Obadiah Stane, a man who indeed would happily watch him dance the Tyburn Jig from Newgate gallows. "So long as you deliver we shall have no quarrel this night. Now throw down that fat coin purse and those fine jewels I see and withdraw, hands to the sky. Ensure you do not cross the path of your coachman. I will suffer no shenanigans or mischief from either of you.”

For all his bluster, Stane did as instructed the way his man had done before him, dropping his belongings into the sack, and moving carefully away.

Next to join the group was a young man who managed to keep a blue-lensed monocle wedged between his eyebrow and cheekbone even though he weaved unsteadily on his feet. His gaudy red and gold silk finery put his travelling companion’s expensive but dull clothing to shame. A dandy perhaps but also another Lord of the Realm, Anthony Edward Stark, ward of the man with whom he travelled.

Stark didn’t make eye contact with the highwayman. However, he did heed Jack’s orders stumbling towards him to carelessly toss his own purse and jewels in the general direction of the bag. Surprisingly, they actually hit their target.

“Did you forget that fetching bauble on your chest, Lord Stark?” Jack asked calmly of the brooch pinned to Stark's lapel.

“I did not, sir,” Stark replied with a drunken slur to his voice as he looked up at Jack with bleary, unfocused eyes. There was also a hint of defiance in his tone which the highwayman made note of. It could yet prove dangerous. “It was my mother’s, and is the most precious thing I have of hers.”

Jack stared at him unblinking for a moment. He leaned forward in his saddle, the leather of his britches creaking against the leather of his seat.

“A word of advice, your Lordship. That is twice you have squared up to me for I believe it was you with the pistol. Do not make it thrice. Had I been another man, or... in a less forgiving mood, it might have earned you a shot to that pretty face of yours. The brooch,” Jack growled in a low voice that was not to be trifled with.

Stark flinched and cowered away pulling off the jewellery to drop it beside the rest of the haul.

“Bah!” Stane mocked, a snarl of disgust twisting his features. “You are a drunk and a coward, sir!”

Jack pointed his pistol directly at him.

“Quiet!” he barked. “Keep that flapping yap of yours tightly closed, your Lordship if you do not wish to feel the bite of my flintlock.”

The older man opened his mouth to retort with a cruel remark but closed it with a snap at the cold, hard stare levelled at him by the highwayman from beneath his hat.

Jack eventually looked down at Stark, his gaze softening slightly. “I thank you for your contribution, sir. You may join your travelling companion, however, see you keep an arm's length from him. I have no wish to harm either of you nevertheless I will if I must.”

The look on the younger man's face was a mix of surprise and respect. The highwayman seemed to have no fear of his guardian. He wished he could say the same for Obadiah Stane was a ruthless and unforgiving man, and it was often the alcohol in his flask that gave young Stark the courage to face off against him.

“Appreciated, sir,” he said with a nod of gratitude before walking away.

"And what would you have of me, Gentleman Jack?" the final occupant of the coach, a slender red-head asked as she gracefully made her way down the steps. She barely glanced at the two men who now stood off to the side.

“Merely your jewels, my Lady," Jack replied, his voice clearly amused as she walked slowly towards him, unafraid and in control. "For I never mix my business with pleasure.”

“You are not known for it, sir. It is true,” she laughed, letting her purse and jewellery fall into the bag. "Should I be grateful you do not start with me, I wonder?"

“Only be grateful it was I who held up your coach this evening and not another with less charm. You are the last of your party? Then if you please, my Lady,” Jack said, gesturing for her to join the others with his pistol.

The Lady Virginia Potts tilted her head to the side with a mischievous smile and dipped in a shallow curtsy before joining her betrothed, Lord Stark and his guardian. Stane curled his lip, unamused at her antics.

“Lord Stark?”

The man flinched at the mention of his name.

“If you would hand me the bag I should be most grateful, sir.”

Surprised at the request, Stark complied nonetheless further inflaming Stane’s disgust.

“I shall not take your pistol,” Gentleman Jack added, slipping one of his own flintlocks into his saddlebag to receive his takings. “You may yet have need of it this night. I will however hold you to your honour that you will not use it when I take my leave.”

Stark nodded his accord. He picked up the sack and as he held it up to the highwayman, he asked with a sudden flash of bravery and devilment, "Pray, tell me, Gentleman Jack, are you as handsome beneath that mask as they say?"

Taking the bag from him, gently holding Stark’s hand in his own to turn it palm up, Jack let out a huff of laughter. "I fear all you may have heard is likely to be pure conjecture, Lord Stark. For those who have seen this face have not lived to tell the tale of how handsome it is.”

Stark smirked then gasped as the highwayman winked and slipped something into his hand closing his fingers around it. Stark looked down biting his lip when he recognised that which he held in his grasp; his mother’s brooch. He did not speak but he flashed Jack a genuine smile and bobbed his head in thanks.

"You have your bounty, you scoundrel. Be gone with you," snarled Stane, sick of the banter. He wished to get to the town and report this personal affront to the magistrate as soon as possible. “As you say, I have business this evening delayed by your damned robbery.”

“Indeed, your Lordship," Gentleman Jack replied, lightly. "Then I’ll delay you no longer, sir. My thanks to you all for your generosity." He tapped his fingers against his hat in an impertinent salute and with a flair for the dramatic, reared his horse then turned her toward Bath riding off in the moonlight.

Clint, who had watched the exchange absolutely fascinated, caught sight of Stane wrestling and winning Stark’s pistol from him to aim it at the back of the highwayman.

“Jack, down!” he yelled, stepping out from behind his cover.

Without looking behind him, Jack dropped forward on his horse. And not a moment too soon. He heard the ball from a pistol whistle past his ear, feeling it slice through the air by his head.

Their eyes made contact for a split second when Jack galloped past. The piercing blue eyes that met his own sparked a flame in Clint's gut, raising the fine hairs on the back of his neck and forearms once again.

Getting control of himself as the highwayman rode on, Clint turned back to see what was happening at the coach but... it was gone. The coach and its occupants, the driver and his team of horses had vanished. He swivelled his head back to the highwayman and again, of the rider and his mount there was no sign. Except perhaps for the faint echo of a horse’s hooves churning up the path to town.

“Fuck me!” Clint muttered running his hand through his hair, letting out a deep, shaky breath, his heart pounding in his chest. Slowly, he headed back along the path he had come with no real desire to continue his original route through the wood. Not that he was afraid as such, he'd seen many strange and inexplicable things as a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent and this was definitely one of those things, but he couldn't deny that he was keen to get back to the hotel.

After all, he had a hell of a ghost story to tell the duty manager when he saw her.

* * *

Clint made his way down the grand staircase, tugging self-consciously at the front of his waistcoat with one hand, rubbing the back of his neck beneath the high collar of his shirt with the other. With remarkable coincidence, his costume was that of an 18th-century highwayman although his had a black eye mask instead of the crimson bandana.

He was met at the bottom by a young woman in Georgian attire with her hair curled and piled on top of her head. She bobbed a curtsy in greeting. “Why, you look very handsome, sir. Or should I say terrifying?”

Remembering the quiet charm of Gentleman Jack from earlier, Clint bowed and graciously thanked her for the compliment returning one of his own. “Most kind of you to say, Miss Simmons. That fetching gown becomes you. It brings out the colour of your pretty hazel eyes and the rotting flesh of your corpse.”

Jemma Simmons, the duty manager of Clint’s hotel giggled and slapped him playfully on his forearm. “Charmer! Did you enjoy your walk?” she asked, dropping the ‘Pride and Prejudice’ affectation to slip into her native Sheffield accent. Or rather ‘Pride and Prejudice and Zombies’... it was Halloween after all and the undead had been added to the Georgian fancy dress theme this year.

Clint followed suit, his American twang becoming more pronounced. "Hey, yeah I did. And that reminds me when I got to Smallcombe Wood I saw some really weird shi… uh, stuff!"

Jemma’s eyebrows raised with interest. “Ooh! What sort of weird stuff? Oh, blast it! I'll have to catch up with you, Clint. It looks like one of Fitz's eyeballs has fallen out."

Ordinarily, the comment and the casualness with which it had been delivered would have concerned him but… Halloween!

With a grin, he nodded and headed towards the bar to mingle with the other guests while trying his damnedest not to fiddle with the cravat. It sat high on his throat and had taken him an age to tie but he'd managed to follow the video eventually. Go, YouTube!

As he chatted with two of the hotel’s guests, Clint could feel a pair of eyes burning into his skin; had done for a while now. That uncomfortable, crawling feeling on the back of his neck he got when someone’s gaze was on him. Out of the corner of his eye, he swore he could see a dark figure, but every time he looked, no matter how surreptitiously, there was no sign of them. Honestly, it was killing his buzz. And he’d been having a really great time at the party.

The staff had done an amazing job with the decorations. Carved pumpkins lined the stairs with little tealights (safety ones knowing Jemma and Fitz) flickering inside, casting shadows on the walls; fake spiderwebs hung from chandeliers, wall sconces and the handrail of the staircase; subtle ornaments and trinkets depicting the season adorned the surfaces of tables and other furniture. It was tastefully done though, not over the top like one of Sitwell's parties, awesome as they were.

He'd danced, he'd talked, he'd eaten and drunk with other patrons and members of the hotel staff. Sadly, he'd never managed to catch up with Jemma who always seemed to have someone with her. His tale of the highwayman would have to wait for a little longer.

And now he had some douche watching him from the shadows like a creepy stalker. It was going to stop. Now.

Clint made his way to the library, currently empty of revellers, where he hoped to draw his unwanted admirer and confront them. It took longer than he thought, however, and just when it seemed he'd been unsuccessful in his attempt, a presence made itself known from the shadows.

“And what business have you here this All Hallow’s Eve, sir? Do you fancy yourself a rival perhaps? For I work with no partner.”

Clint shivered at the familiar voice. How was it even possible?

“I’m not sure what you mean, Gentleman Jack,” Clint replied calmly given the circumstances. For as he turned his head to look over his shoulder at the masked man sitting quite at home by the fireplace, he knew without a doubt it was the highwayman from the woods.

This time he was wearing an eye mask similar to Clint's, still crimson, and no bandana leaving his lower face bare. Clint wasn't sure which he liked the most; the heavy scruff adorning a strong jawline or the crooked half-smile that melted his insides.

“You!” Jack exclaimed in recognition, sitting straight in his chair before rising to his feet. “I had my eye on a highwayman but I did not realise it was you. You shouted a warning to me when others would have turned me in. The reward is decent enough I hear. It makes me wonder why would you risk yourself like that?”

Well, that threw Clint. His warning had been automatic. For all Jack was an armed robber who held up coaches at gunpoint, he'd seemed like a person with his own kind of moral code. He'd taken no shit from the first guy, been kind to the second, and he appeared to have appreciated the boldness of the woman. That he was a charming bastard didn't hurt either.

Jack smirked and took a step towards Clint. "Charming bastard, am I? Well, that would appear a compliment. But… it does not answer my question, sir. And your answer had best be a good one."

Clint bit his lip horrified he'd let his thought slip out. Well, he'd have to make sure no other secrets escape his lips. Unless, of course, he meant them to.

He turned around to face the other man and held his gaze. Once again, a spark of lust ignited a flame in his belly at the intensity of those eyes which captured his own. And, just for an instant, they seemed to glow red in the light from the fire.

"A highwayman you may be," Clint said impressed with how even his voice sounded given the circumstances and the way heart was trying to escape from his chest, "but you have more honour than the man you held up this evening. Stane you called him. There's no sport in shooting a man in the back."

With a quiet huff of laughter, Jack replied, "A fine answer. Perhaps a silver tongue to rival my own after all. It would seem you still managed to avoid my first question. Why would a highwayman be at this affair?"

“Asks the other highwayman,” snarked Clint, crossing his arms over his chest. He knew he should be more concerned. Gentleman Jack and his horse, and the coach with its occupants had disappeared in the woods. Literally disappeared. Like fucking ghosts. And he’d been so sure that’s what they were. However, now one of them seemed to have found his way here to the very hotel Clint was staying in. And he was at a loss how to explain it.

So yeah, he should be more concerned but honestly, he was just kinda pissed at Jack’s smart-ass attitude.

Jack smiled at him but didn’t reply.

"Perhaps I was invited here," Clint growled with a shrug, annoyed that he was letting the other man get to him. “What’s _your_ reason?”

“Perhaps I did the inviting.”

Clint scrunched up his nose and opened his mouth to respond when the door to the library burst open and two slightly drunk guests fell into the room, giggling and making clumsy attempts to kiss each other.

“Oops! Sorry,” one of the women said, gently pushing her companion away as she smoothed her hands down her dress. Her companion blushed and curtsied.

Clint turned his head to Jack again but he was gone leaving Clint confused and just a little freaked out. Was he a ghost? He seemed so real when they talked. Did ghosts talk even?

He tapped his fingertips to his tricorn hat. “Ladies,” he greeted and swept out of the room in search of Jemma.

*

“Who’s the other highwayman here tonight?” he asked.

Jemma looked at him with confusion. “There isn’t another highwayman. We only ordered one costume which was for you.”

“In that case, I think I’ve been followed by a ghost.”

Jemma slapped her hand over her mouth to contain the squeal. She removed it long enough to squeak, “Oh my god! What?” before clamping it in place again.

Clint shrugged, glad she was as freaked out as he was. When he found her he dragged her away from another couple of guests murmuring an apology and stating he needed her for an emergency. Now they had found somewhere quiet, he gave her a sitrep of everything that had happened from the woods to the library.

The hotel manager took a deep breath, then an even deeper swallow of wine from the glass she held in her free hand. “Are you sure of the name?”

When Clint nodded, Jemma continued.

“Gentleman Jack is real. I mean, he was real hundreds of years ago. No-one really knows who he was but he was famous for holding up coaches along the Bath to Hounslow Heath road. He was one of the few that was never caught and hanged. Apparently, he was very charismatic and charmed the pants off a great many of his victims. British pants not American, although I suppose...”

The candle by Jemma’s elbow blew out angrily leaving a wisp of smoke drifting up from the wick.

Wide-eyed, she and Clint looked at each other. Jemma gulped down the rest of her wine and winced. “Oh, balls! I hope that was a combination of a draught from somewhere and the wine.”

She stared at Clint with a slightly wild expression. “He’s not… _here_, is he?”

Clint smiled. “Not that I can see, no.”

That he couldn’t see him was true but he didn’t tell her about the feeling of someone being so close behind him he could swear he felt the heat from their body radiating against him. And if Jemma apparently couldn’t see them, he figured it must be Jack. But if Jack was a ghost would he radiate heat at all?

“But why would he follow me here?” Clint asked, ignoring the warm breath against his neck. Surely it should be cold breath. Fuck! He was thinking about this way too much.

“I have absolutely no idea,” Jemma confessed. She opened her mouth to say more which, of course, was when Fitz made an appearance. Clint liked Fitz. He really did. He enjoys when the Chef comes through from the kitchen to discuss how he puts together a particular dish like it's some kind of epic engineering project, but his timing tonight has really sucked.

“Jemma, I think I might have dropped my eyeball into the punch!” he told her, sounding a little panicked.

“Oh, Fitz! The one that’s hanging from its tendon against your face or another one?” she asked, mildly exasperated.

Fitz touched his fingers to his cheek and chuckled when he felt the little round object beneath his fingertips. “So it is! Cheers, Jem. Help me put it back in, eh? The guests have a total tizzy when it pops out.”

“Yes, Fitz,” Jemma sighed dramatically, leading Fitz away giving Clint an apologetic look over her shoulder.

“Do not believe those tales of my infidelity, highwayman. I have loved but two people in my life. One whom I can love freely, the other… remains a secret.”

And with that, the presence was gone. Moments later, the grandfather clock in the lobby began to chime the hour. On the twelfth chime, and with an empty feeling in his chest, Clint knew he wouldn’t see Jack again.

* * *

“So... good morning. You’re new.”

The man looked up from his monitor and flashed Clint a crooked smile. “Actually sir, not so much but… appreciate the compliment,” he deadpanned.

Clint stopped short unable to believe his eyes. He was looking straight into the face of Gentleman Jack.

Clint knew he was gawping, but he couldn’t help himself. Without doubt it was the highwayman from last night standing before him. Clean-shaven and wearing a perfectly fitted modern-day suit, but there was no mistaking those intense blue eyes and the calm voice like warm honey that raised goosebumps over his skin.

The guy’s face slowly changed from amused to concerned as Clint stood frozen, unable to speak. “Sir, you’re kinda worrying me. Are you okay?”

“Jack?” Clint breathed.

The other man’s eyebrows shot up almost reaching his hairline. “I’m sorry?” he said.

For a second Clint thought he saw something akin to recognition flitting across the man’s face then it was gone, replaced by a certain wariness.

“Why… would you call me that?” he asked, quietly.

Clint’s heart raced. It couldn't be him… Last night had been Halloween. With a full moon and ghosts and zombies. Ghosts weren’t around in the day time, were they? And zombies, well…

When it hit him he didn’t know whether to find it funny or infuriating. He’d been set up. The realisation of how gullible he’d been slammed into him like being hit by a semi. Hard and painful.

“You! Last night. I thought… but you’re him. _You're_ the ghost. But there is no ghost, is there? You all played me, and I was the dumbass who fell for it.”

Clint had no idea why he was so hurt. It’s not like this was the first time he’d been set up by Nat or Jasper or even Mel and Maria. It was never malicious but this had been so elaborate, so personal.

The man frowned, a triangle of creases forming over the bridge of his nose.

“Sir, I…”

“Nah. Well done. Bravo.” Clint slow hand clapped, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You can tell Nat she got me big time.”

“Sir!” And the warm honey turned to ice, freezing Clint’s hands mid-clap. “Trust me when I tell you I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m not usually rude to guests at my hotel but... I’m jet-lagged and highly-caffeinated and... there were geese on the runway. Runways are supposed to be goose free. Runways have those sound things to keep them... goose free.”

Clint blinked again before ducking his head. What the fuck? This was taking a turn he hadn’t bargained for.

“Uh…” he managed before being cut off. Clint could do nothing except listen with one hand reaching for the back of his neck, to rub it self-consciously while the other was crammed into the pocket of his jeans.

“So believe me when I tell you whatever you _think_ I did last night, I was either stuck at JFK because of thick fog in New York, on a crappy transatlantic flight beside a guy who passed gas like it was an Olympic event, or circling Heathrow because of _fucking geese_!”

The man was perfectly calm until the last two words which he practically shouted at Clint.

The pair stared at each other unblinking.

“You really have a thing about geese, huh?”

The tension in the Dude-in-the-suit’s shoulders which had been building since Clint accused him of being Jack, fell away. With a heavy sigh and as much dignity as he could, he dropped his chin to his chest and smoothed his hand down his tie. Clasping his hands in front of him, he tilted his head to look up at Clint, a slightly pained expression on his face.

“I apologise, sir. That was unbelievably rude.”

Clint shrugged a small smile curling up the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, don’t worry about it. I think maybe I needed you to have a mini-meltdown to stop me from having mine. Besides, we’ve all been jet-lagged and highly-caffeinated. And at least you didn’t shoot anyone with a boomerang arrow.”

The guy raised an enquiring eyebrow. “Huh! Nope. Never done that,” he confirmed, the amusement back in his eyes.

“Actually, I’m sorry. I acted kinda weird back then,” Clint said. “It’s just you, uh, reminded me of someone. The similarity is actually pretty scary.”

“I got that.”

Clint blushed. “The guys as work, we prank each other a lot and I thought maybe they asked you to well, set me up.”

“Got that too. Pretty sure I’ve blown that theory out of the water.” The man gave him a wry smile.

“Jesus! You look so fucking like him,” Clint whispered. It was then he something struck him; the man’s accent wasn’t English. It was American.

“Hi, Boss. I see you’ve met Clint.”

“Not exactly,” the man said, giving her a hug keeping his arm around her shoulders as he introduced himself. “Phil Coulson, jet-lagged, highly caffeinated and extremely rude owner of The Residence.”

He held out his hand and the familiar half-smile he gave Clint woke the butterflies in Clint’s stomach.

“Clint Barton, kinda weird and not at all offended guest of The Residence,” he said, taking Phil’s hand in his. The grip was warm and strong but not overbearing. And it was nice.

Unfortunately, the look in Phil’s eyes told a different story.

“Barton?” Phil’s voice was rough and the colour drained from his face. His arm slipped from Jemma’s shoulders and he stepped away from her.

“Boss? What’s wrong?” Jemma’s face was full of concern as Phil’s had been not so long ago.

He offered her a rather uncertain smile. “I’m fine, Jemma. A little surprised but… fine. Would you ask the kitchen for a pot of coffee to be sent to my office? Mr Barton, with me please.”

Clint and Jemma exchanged glances. Clint raised an eyebrow and Jemma shrugged in response. Each did as requested however with Jemma lifting the phone and Clint following Phil through a door behind reception.

Phil gestured to a comfortable chair in front of a large oak desk, obviously antique but used day-to-day and well cared for. Clint sat in the seat offered to him. Unexpectedly, Phil perched himself on the corner of the desk and not on the chair behind it. He folded his arms across his chest and jutted his chin towards the wall opposite. “Is this the man you thought I was?”

Clint turned his head, his mouth dropping open again at the painting of a man in the blue and gold of a military uniform of the early 1800s and a pretty young woman by his side. His resemblance to Gentleman Jack and Phil was uncanny from the broad shoulders to the bend in his nose.

Caught completely off balance for a second time, Clint nodded.

“Phillip James Coulson. Captain of the 10th Royal Hussars, second son of Sir Robert Coulson - one of the men who designed and built Great Pulteney Street. He was also known as Jack to his friends. And to a very select few Gentleman Jack... The Highwayman. He’s also an ancestor of mine but… I think you may have guessed that already.”

Phil pushed himself off the desk to answer the knock at the door.

“Hey, Boss. Good to see you back,” greeted a young woman happily, bringing in a tray laden with coffee cups, and sliver-ware. She placed it on the desk and re-joined Phil at the door where she stretched up to give him a kiss on his cheek. “Catch up with you later. Hi, Clint.”

“Hi, Daisy.” Clint flashed a stunned smile at her.

Phil closed the door and returned to his desk. Before preparing them each a coffee, he reached into a drawer and removed a locket which he gave to Clint.

“Open it. Recognise him?” he asked gently as Clint did so.

Clint nodded, unable to speak. On one side was a miniature painting of the same woman. On the other, a young man who looked remarkably like Clint. Or Clint from several hundred years ago. He stared at it and quoted the words Jack had spoken the night before.

“_I have loved but two people in my life. One whom I can love freely, the other remains a secret_.”

He looked up at Phil, whose expression was soft and understanding. “The woman was Jack’s wife, Audrey Elizabeth Nathan. The man, his lover, Clinton Francis Barton. They served in the Hussars together. Became lovers with Audrey’s blessing apparently. According to Jack’s journals anyway which... make for some interesting reading. When you called me Jack, for a moment I felt I knew you but… I dismissed it. When you said your name though… Seems I was right. As were you.”

He handed Clint a black coffee and brought his chair from behind his desk to sit with him.

Clint looked down at it then back to Phil. “How did you know I take it black?” he asked.

Phil shrugged taking a sip from his own cup. “No idea. But I’m right, yes?”

Clint nodded and drank some, smiling over the rim at Phil. It was exactly right.

Phil leaned forward in his chair, his blue eyes as intense as Clint had ever seen them. “I don’t think it’s the first time we’ve met, Clint. It’s possible there have been other occasions just... not in this lifetime.”

In some weird way, everything Phil was saying made sense. It certainly explained a lot. It definitely explained why he wanted to kiss the man sitting opposite him until he can't breathe any longer. He reined in that compulsion. For now at least.

“Have you met Audrey yet?” Clint asked instead. He wasn't jealous as such but he was curious.

Relaxing back in his seat, Phil smiled a faint blush tinting his cheeks. “When I was on leave from the Rangers a few years ago. She’s second chair cellist with the Portland Philharmonic. I watched her play and... fell in love with her. A whirlwind romance that didn’t last long. I had to go back to my unit, she was going on tour with the orchestra. We parted friends.”

So their lives _are_ intertwined. Perhaps he'll get to meet Audrey one day too. And if _their_ lives are connected, maybe others are too. Perhaps that's why Natasha and he fit like a glove from the first moment they met; why Jasper, Melinda and Maria have always felt like family even though they're assholes; why he found Jemma, Fitz and Daisy so easy to talk to; maybe even why he fell in love with Bath from the first moment he set foot in the city.

And it occurred to him Phil, like Jack, had a military background even though his family owned the hotel. Or the street. He's not sure which. But he had to ask. “How do you go from Army Ranger to hotelier? And if Jack's old man was Sir Robert does that mean you're Sir Phillip cuz that shit's fucking hilarious.”

Phil barked out a quiet laugh. Clint chuckled along with him which helped him disguise the shiver that rolled down his spine. The sound was eerily similar to that of the Highwayman.

"'Fraid not, Clint. A knighthood isn't hereditary. Besides, some ancestors were better at gambling than others. A hundred years or so after Jack, one of them lost the estate and most of the family's wealth in a wager. As for me, I was injured during a tour. Couldn’t return to my unit so my father decided it was time for me to take over the reins of the family business.”

Clint studied him for a while. It should probably have been unnerving but it didn’t worry Phil.

“Us meeting... doesn’t mean we’ll fall in love too,” Clint announced finally. “Besides I’m scheduled to leave for London tomorrow for a few days. Then back to New York.”

“New York, huh? I just came from there.”

Clint grinned at him. “I know. Fogbound airports, flatulent passengers and geese on the runway. Kinda hard to forget.”

The tips of Phil’s ears glowed and he ducked his head before looking up at Clint from under his eyebrows.

“I can’t convince you to stay here instead of going to London?” His voice was rough, a low growl almost, and reminded Clint of Jack’s. Clint swallowed thickly.

“Doesn’t mean we’ll fall in love,” he repeated, quietly but perhaps there was a little hope, a little longing in his tone.

“No,” Phil agreed, setting his cup and saucer on the desk, holding his hand out to Clint. “But at the very least we part as friends.”

Clint sat still for a moment then did the same, taking Phil’s hand in his. The two men stood as one drawing closer together until their bodies were pressed together.

“Clint,” Phil whispered against his lips.

“Phil, my Gentleman Jack,” Clint replied kissing him softly.

*

In the hallway, a candle flickered briefly before its flame burned strong and steady as though Gentleman Jack was giving his approval.

**Author's Note:**

> *SPOILERS*  
There is an element of reincarnation within the story. I didn't put it in the tags as I thought it might give the ending away.
> 
> *
> 
> The Exeter to Bath to London road was well-known for highwaymen several hundred years ago however the path through Smallcombe Wood, although real, isn't haunted by the ghost of Gentleman Jack. The walk Clint takes is also real and is part of the Skyline Tour in Bath. The hotel is based on a place called Number 15 which looks gorgeous - I'd love to stay there.
> 
> Yes, I know it's mid-November so Halloween has long since passed but then... Halloween is the best of the holidays, why can't it be all year round.
> 
> Finally, thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoy the story and if you should wish to leave kudos or comments, please feel free.  
~ Lola


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